


Parker's Pet

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Dear Anon... [3]
Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: A little dub!con, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom Wade Wilson, Conditioning, Disturbing Themes, Doggy Style, Dub!con to romcom, Homeless!Wade, Homelessness, M/M, Master/Pet, Mental Instability, Object Insertion, Rough Sex, So Peter's still a shitbag, Uncle Ben didn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Peter Parker always wanted a pet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **(Hopefully) the last installment in my Dear Anon series! For those new to my fic, this series is dedicated to an anon on tumblr who couldn't bear the thought that Deadpool is canonically sexually submissive. Unfortunately for them, pettiness is a great motivator.**
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> **MAJOR WARNINGS for abuse, taking advantage of vulnerable people, and resultant dub!con. I dithered over tagging this as non!con, because pretty much all dub!con is non!con. I decided not to, because I know most of fandom doesn't see it that way. I'm still a little leery of this, but whatever. Anyway - while there's no violent rape, any sexual content is definitely coerced, and (to start with at least) in exchange for basic necessities, like food/shelter. Be ye warned.**
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> ****

Peter always wanted a pet. And while his apartment complex had rules about cats and dogs, nowhere in the rent legislation did it state that you weren’t allowed to keep a human.

He finds his perfect candidate in the winter of 2016, when the tabloids are overflowing with tales of Trump and Pence elbowing their way into the Whitehouse, and the whiny liberals have a new complaint to make every other day. It’s winter. Bitter-cold. Ice crunches under Peter’s boots as he braves the trek from the _Daily Bugle_ ’s towering edifice to his crummy, run-down apartment. The salary of a junior photographer is nothing to smile at. Peter can hardly cover his TV license. But he’s got a place, he’s got central heating, and there’s food in his fridge (even if that fridge could be mistaken for a path-lab specimen, and its temperatures consistently exceed those of the outside city).

There’s others who aren’t so lucky.

So long as civilization has existed, so have they. Beggars haunted street corners in Dickensian novels and Greek tragedies alike. Nowadays, in contemporary New York, they lurk on the margins, slipping between abandoned subway tunnels and frigid, frost-laden park benches. Not quite here, not quite there. Not quite dead, but on their way – especially if the winter gets any worse. Peter expects to see stiffs cluttering the gutters when he heads out on his morning run.

Good riddance, in his opinion. The less vagrants, the more desirable this part of Queens, and the more Peter can sell his apartment for when he nails that long-overdue pay raise.

The soup kitchen around the corner is working overtime. Peter smells it as he trudges through the sludgy detritus of midwinter: chipped ice, salt from the roads, empty food wrappers and the occasional dropped mitten. Today’s menu is leek and potato. The aroma is cosy and homely, at odds with the bite of cold air, which leaves Peter’s lips chapped and his nostrils red-raw. Grumbling to himself, he unwraps his scarf from round his neck and fastens it over his face in a half-mask. Aunt May’s knitting makes for a rather cutesy bandit bandana. But it’s warm and that’s what matters. Hands shoved knee-ticklingly deep in his pockets, Peter hastens his stride.

The sunken eyes of the New York homeless are like windows into another world. One where there’s no promise of a pot of cocoa and a mattress waiting after a hard day’s work. Their hats are pressed tight over weathered, wind-scraped faces, anything to keep out the brutal chill. Those who are awake leave a sliver of grubby skin showing between eyebrow and nose bridge, just enough to for the amber gleam from the streetlight to percolate.

Their gazes stick to him as he approaches. When he doesn’t pause to fling down coins they dismiss him, not bothering to kindle hope.

Peter ought to feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps guilty. But mostly, he’s curious. What would these people do in exchange for a buck? He’s tempted to dig out some spare change and find out. Perhaps he could flick it between two huddled figures and watch them scuffle? Or hold up banknotes, one at a time, until some poor sod crawls forwards and husks that he’d do whatever Peter asks, if only he’ll treat him well…

Peter can’t help the fantasies. He’s a young man, fresh to the world of work. Despite his rickety accommodation and lowly position in the _Daily Bugle_ ’s grinding industrious machine, he knows he’ll make it to the top. In fact, sauntering along flanked by the city’s most helpless makes him inject his stride with a little swagger, hold up his chin, smirk behind his scarf.

Here, even a nobody like Peter Parker can feel powerful.

***

Peter doesn’t see the man until he treads on him.

He crosses the road to his apartment block. A series of steps rise from the street, crumbling concrete and chipped granite melded into something that is at once blue-collar and faux-posh. Peter can do better – _will_ do better. But for now, he has to make do.

He takes them two at a time. His breath curls through the wool scarf, tiny whorls of steam that diffuse slowly as ink dripped in water. But before he can key in the access code, his boot meets something that is Not Supposed To Be There.

It’s unmistakably human. Yet when it growls and lurches away, into the light that gathers unctuous and yellow on the snow like a puddle of spilt olive oil, a part of Peter insists it’s anything but.

It’s ugly. He’s never seen anything – anyone – who fits the word better.

It’s ugly and it’s snarling, snapping teeth too neat and symmetrical for the rest of its twisted face. If it were a dog, Peter would’ve kicked it again – on purpose, this time. He still might, if the creature keeps _growling _like that…__

“This’s my doorstep!” it croaks. “Mine!” A palm slaps its chest to emphasize. Peter’s gaze latches onto the scar tissue, swimming animatedly across cold white flesh. Now that’s a weird skin condition. He’s never seen anything quite so disgusting. Interest piqued, Peter observes the man with the clinical interest of a biologist digging scalpels into a mollusc to see if it reacts to pain.

The man is clad in a filthy red sweater, not nearly thick enough. It pulls tight across his broad shoulders as he snarls, and Peter can smell the leeks on his breath.

How does a homeless guy get ripped on a diet of soup-kitchen scraps? Much less maintain his musculature? Would he stay fit and firm if Peter kept him chained to his bedpost, only exercised when Peter was home from work and in the mood to fuck? Or would all those hard planes soften to flab?

Peter shakes his head. Reminds himself he doesn’t care.

“I’m passing through,” he says. Holds up a set of keys.

“Oh,” comes the eloquent answer. Then, after a slight awkward pause – “Go on then. Uh, I’d say ‘be my guest’ but that’s kinda redundant as you’re the one with the house…”

Peter tunes out the babble. He wonders if he should be more offended that the man mistook him for a streetwalker. Then again, considering how close the scars on his face cut to his eyes, he may well be visually impaired. His pupils remain pinned to Peter regardless. The rings surrounding them are fierce sherry-gold. Given the rest of his run-down appearance, they’re the richest and most beautiful thing about him. Despite his aversion to the man’s skin, smell, and general grotesquery, Peter is fascinated. More than fascinated.

He _wants_.

Any beast that’s had to survive in the wild learns to rely on instinct. Sensing danger, those eyes snap away. Instead the man cocks his head as if he’s listening. Peter emulates on automatic, and frowns when he only hears the hum of snow-chained car tires over grit on the next road over.

“Yeah,” mutters the creature occupying his doorstep. He rubs his fingers, coaxing warmth into silvery scars. Blows on them and peeps at Peter from under lashless eyelids, and whispers his next words as if they’re not supposed to be heard by any other soul. “Yeah, he is pretty cute. Be nice if he didn’t look at us like he wanted to take a bite, but hey. A girl can’t have everything.”

Peter’s had enough. But before he can snort and shove him out the way, the man scuttles to one side. He unfolds in a burst, too much energy contained in a single body. Peter has time to think ‘ _He’s taller than me; guess I’ll have to keep him on his knees_ ’ before the man gestures to the keypad and plasters himself against the pillar at the edge of the top step.

“I’m not gonna peek. Just hurry up and get that scrawny tush inside so I can reclaim my step.”

Despite the flippancy of the words, the guy’s body-language is all defense. He’s hunched over on himself like he’d be posturing if he weren’t so cold. He slots his fingers into his armpits, tucking his chin to his chest to avoid looking Peter in the eye. As the door clinks closed behind Peter, he glances through the peephole to see the man picking his way to the most sheltered spot, hunkering down, and curling into a tight little ball.

Oh yes. There’s an obedient pet in there somewhere. He just needs a firm handler. One who isn’t afraid to break him, if that’s what it takes to coax it out…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by me!
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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Shite, I just realized I never fixed the chapter count, even after Blue_Jack pointed it out.... Sorry bud. Hopefully new fic makes up for it? Although it's short. And late. And loosely edited. And.... ugh.**
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> **Nevertheless, enjoy.**
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> ********

Next night he’s back.

A stray, curled in the windbreak of a house he can’t afford. Looking as dingy and grubby as the streets he’s from. All alone, uncared for and unable to care for himself; he’s practically begging for a kind soul to take him in.

Peter is no kind soul. But he’s the only one willing, so he’ll have to do. Having jerked himself last night, wondering whether all the man’s skin is as brutalized as his face and hands – if he’s tender inside, hole soft and supple as a well fucked whore’s – Peter has had plenty of time to contemplate his past. He must be a veteran of some sort. He’s lean as a fighting mutt, not an ounce of fat on him. And those scars….

He catches Peter staring. Glares – but there’s something brittle about it, like he’s so used to being looked at like a freak that he’s forgotten how to be angry about it. He breaks the gaze first. Huddles lower in his too-tight hoodie. “He still looks at us like he wants to eat us.”

“Only you,” says Peter – to which the man twitches and nods to the space above his own head.

“You hard of hearing? Cause I know rudimentary sign language. Here.” He bangs his right hand off his chest, first on one side, then the other, with a violence that comes from being too numb to register pain. “ _Us._ Y’see?”

So he’s insane as well as ugly. Peter can work with that – so long as Wade doesn’t flip in the night and strangle him with his own leash. Summoning the polite, proper young man that his aunt and uncle believe him to be, he holds himself tall and plasters on his sunniest smile. It’s a pleasant contrast from the wintry surrounds. Even his new dog thaws a little: hunch reducing, frown not quite so severe. “Well do you – _all_ of you – want to come inside for a drink? Something to warm you up?”

“Ooh, want/mustn’t conflict…” The man peeks through the open crack of Peter’s door. The hallway isn’t inviting, riddled as it is with mildew and dead leaves, but it’s shelter, and compared to what he’s used to it must look luxurious. “I’m not stupid, y’know – despite numerous theories to the contrary. I’ve seen horror movies. Are you gonna turn into a bug alien a la _Starship Troopers_ and suck out my brain via Freudian proboscis?”

Amused, Peter shakes his head.

“Tentacle monster? Preferably one made out of techno-organic compounds? Or spatulas?”

Another headshake. The man looks almost _disappointed._ “Serial killer then. Classic, but not cliché. I’ll call you Otis, you call me Henry, and we can make sweet, sweet love…” When Peter snorts, the man leans over his scuffed knees, tease fading. “C’mon. Throw me a bone. Nothing’s free in this city – and what could a pretty-boy like you possibly want from someone like _me?_ ” There’s more self-loathing compacted into that sentence than in an entire series of teen girl magazines. Peter has to stop himself from rubbing his hands like a cartoon villain. This is far, far too easy.

“Your plural-pronouns have slipped,” he points out.

“Yeah, tell me about it! The boxes don’t like it when I don’t acknowledge them. Makes them think that they only exist in my head, or something crazy like that.”

“Crazy,” says Peter flatly, one eyebrow crooked. The man nods along enthusiastically.

“They sure are! Little blighters oughta be locked up!” Then, registering the tone behind Peter’s words, he freezes. Not literally, although it comes close. Scars swarm under frost-slippery cheeks, and he treats Peter to a scowl that’d be better suited to a gargoyle. “Hey, baby-boy. Was that an insult? That sounded like an insult. Because lemme tell you, if I ain’t stupid then I sure as _hell_ ain’t crazy.” A pause. “Huh. Almost quoted Heath. We miss you man. Hashtag-Leto’s-Not-My-Joker.”

There’ll be time for arguing semantics later. And for deciphering the whackier half of the man’s speech. For now, Peter takes a step forwards, into his personal space. The power rush when he backs up is exhilarating. He flinches when Peter grips his elbow, and even through his warm fleece-lined gloves and the man’s ratty jumper, Peter can feel how cold he is.

“Come inside,” he says. “I insist.”

***

The man hovers on the threshold of Peter’s shabby sitting room. He’s pulled his hood over his face, as if afraid the overhead lighting will make him uglier. Peter would tell him that such a thing is impossible, if he weren’t making an effort to be polite.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Untrusting eyes focus on him. Then snap away. “Wade Wilson, at your service,” the man pipes, but his voice is fake-cheerful and every inch of his posture indicates that he’s straining to get away from here, back to the cold dark night that is all he knows. “Is this where I say ‘I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours?’ Or do you only tell me your name after you’ve raped and murdered me? Not necessarily in that order – although trust me, it’ll take a lot to make the murdering stick, so you’d best save that for last.”

Peter treats Wade to a friendly smile. Wade doesn’t need to know his name.

Rather than replying, he heads to the kitchen – a small, mildew-smelling box clipped crudely to the side of his bathroom. He sheds his coat and hat on the way. Wade, with far fewer layers, plucks at his jumper but neglects to give in to the unspoken invitation. He crosses his arms over his chest instead – that broad firm chest that Peter wants to have arching beneath him, shuddering to pull in breath around the too-tight collar he’s going to fasten around Wilson’s throat – and leans on the doorframe. “So, how long have you been in these digs? They’re mighty swanky.”

They probably look it to him; that’s the tragic thing. Peter digs out the cocoa and sets to preparing two steaming mugs, kettle whistling merrily and steam clouding the air. He sets his heating to come on an hour before he gets home, but the radiators are as cranky as they’re clanky and it takes nearly as long to get his apartment habitable as he can afford to have them roaring full-blast. Better warm him and Wade up from the inside.

…Although Wade’s a lot cooler than Peter. He’ll need something a little extra.

Wade’s shivers have him practically vibrating, and Peter hums to himself at the thought of that big body wringing around his cock. “Couple of years,” he says, as he pulls the bottle out of one of his cupboards and tips a long transparent, spirit-scented stream into Wade’s mug. Stoppering it, he tucks it back behind the cereal box, gives both drinks a stir, and plonks them onto a tray to carry through. “Well, c’mon. Make yourself at home.”

Wade crosses to the couch but dithers over sitting. Quite rightly too. He’s filthy, pants stained with snow and general gutter-detritus. Really Peter should make him strip – but he suspects that’d be too far, too fast. There’ll be time later. Right now, unless Wade drops dead of dysentery tomorrow – not unlikely, given how bad he smells – Peter has all the time in the world. Peter folds onto his armchair, ignoring the stuffing that puffs from the cushion. He sets the tray on his lap, forcing Wade to cross over to him. The man’s tension sky-rockets with each step; he eyes Peter like that cocoa’s gonna be thrown into his face, adding scald-scars to the mess of crinkling raw skin.

Tempting. But no; Peter doesn’t want to hurt him. He wants to _keep_ him. Groom him, train him, teach him to accept his touch without flinching or shying away…

They have a long way to go. When Peter taps his foot on the floor, Wade’s teeth grit. But he folds to sit, cross-legged like a child, knee an inch from the baggy toe of Peter’s worn-out winter socks.

“Good boy,” says Peter. He smirks at Wade’s kneejerk scowl and passes down the mug. Good boys get rewards, after all. “Drink this, warm up a bit, and I’ll let you go back to my doorstep if you really want. But you’re welcome to stay – on the floor.” He’s not sacrificing his couch to the miscellany of crud accumulated in the creases of Wade’s clothes. “I just couldn’t bear to see you out there like that. This winter will be a brutal one, and you looked so _cold_ …”

Wade looks thoroughly mistrustful of Peter’s altruism. But the first sparks of hope kindle in his eyes – his ridiculously expressive eyes, which fixate on Peter’s offering, even as he rejects it. “Well, aren’t you just a Mother Theresa in a cheap business suit! Do all the local streeties get this treatment, or am I special?” Peter’s hand aches from holding the mug at an awkward angle. He replaces it on the tray. He makes Wade wait, slurping and savoring his own creamy, bitter concoction. The drink slips down his throat and settles like a swallowed sauna-stone. Wade must be able to smell it. Peter wonders what it makes him think of; personally, the rich earthy odor evokes childhood Christmasses, huddled around the fake electric fire at Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s.

“You’re special,” he says eventually. Then, before Wade can get panicky – “You chose my doorstep, after all. That makes you my responsibility.”

Wade is far from convinced. But he hasn’t bolted yet. He eyes the cocoa, expression wavering between puppyish want and intransigence, and sits on his hands to stop himself reaching for the hot cup. Peter shrugs, and concentrates on enjoying his drink. He sips until he’s slurping the frothy, granular dregs, then wipes his sticky moustache and takes the mug back to the kitchen.

He stands too fast. Wade twitches: a full-body jerk that rattles him head to toe. He cringes from Peter like he’s expecting a kick. Then looks abruptly disgusted at himself. Peter, frozen in rapt interest, observes the way Wade forces his upthrown arms to droop, tension draining from his muscles under extreme duress.

So his dog is too proud to cower? That’ll change.

Peter smirks to himself and heads for the kitchen. He leaves Wade’s mug on the tray, balanced on the chairarm, and busies himself in washing up. The evening frost creeps across the window and the fuggy haze of air-pollution wreathes the streetlights in amber. Peter, up to his elbows in suds as he rids last week’s crockery of its stains, pauses when he hears the latch click to. Then shrugs, and continues to scrub.

By the time he’s finished, fingers pruney and shirt sleeves damp and soap-stained, Peter ambles back through to his sitting room to find the mug half-empty and Wade vanished, the only evidence for his presence the circle of mud and dirty snowmelt that he’s left on Peter’s carpet.

Peter tuts, toeing the seeping mess. He’s gonna have to put down newspaper. Hard as it may be to teach an old dog new tricks, housetraining is a must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So yeah, Uncle Ben's still alive, which is (in part) why Peter's such a tool. We only get brief glimpses of his yucky side in canon, so I've taken it upon myself to explore it more thoroughly.**   
>  **Drop me a comment yoooo**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Juggling up whether this needs the 'noncon' tag. I mean, in my opinion it pretty obviously does, but I'm notoriously bad at navigating AO3 tags. This fic won't ever stray into 'violent flouting of consent'. It's more 'dub-con' - although that word makes me cringe a little, as all dub-con is pretty much non-con anyway. I don't know. What do you think?**

Wade comes back.

Peter doesn’t expect anything less. Whatever non-verbal threat cues Wade picked up from him, they pale into insignificance after a night spent staving off shivers. Wade’s pride will have been sapped by the cold – as will his intelligence, and his strength, and his will to resist.

Peter walks home from the tube station to find a sad small bundle on his doorstep. Wade’s misshapen head is hidden by his threadbare hood. But where the red material has worn through, Peter can see scars bulging at the surface of his skin like they’re yearning to break free, pummeling Wade from the inside.

Peter crunches through the snow, his toecaps polished by the slushy powder. And, of course, by today’s most demeaning work-incident. Jameson had gotten his boxers in a twist over some minor technicality involving an article that took up less space on the page than Peter’s chair-and-desk ensemble in the open plan office. He had thrown the scalding coffee-cup Peter had brought him right back onto Peter’s lap. He’s lucky he jumped up, letting the majority splash over his feet. Otherwise he’d have been sent home on unpaid leave, nursing a scalded groin – which would scupper his ability to pay mortgage, not to mention ruin his plans for the night.

When he hears him approach, Wade stiffens like a cold cadaver. Coincidentally, that’s what he’ll become unless Peter gets him inside.

Wade doesn’t beg straight away. “What was in that drink?” is the first thing he asks. “Vodka?” Of course. He’d finished half of it – enough to feel the effects. Peter assumes artlessness.

“Just a little toddy. Did it warm you up?”

He climbs the steps. Hawkish amber eyes watch his ascent. When Peter stands directly in front of him, Wade makes to open his mouth, offer up some witticism or another – but his stomach speaks first. The rumble could be mistaken for an overhead jet. Peter crooks an eyebrow.

“No soup kitchen today?” he asks, patting himself down for his keys. Wade tucks his head between his folded arms. He’s not ashamed – street walkers don’t have enough pride for that. But perhaps there’s a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks when he mutters into the scarred skin of his wrist:

“Last time I was there on a Wednesday I asked Sister Margaret whether it was an actual rat paw I found in my Chunky Chicken, or if I was just hallucinating again. Don’t think she’s forgiven me yet. But as fasting helps me maintain my svelte figure, I should be thanking dear Eda-Blackwater-senior. Mm. And her saggy varicose veined legs. Wouldn’t mind having them wrapped around my face. Earmuffs, y’know. Could do with them at this time of year. Maybe I should write a note to Santa…”

Peter, locating the fob and fumbling them free with clumsy thick-gloved fingers, punches his number into the keypad and contemplates this latest tidbit of information. So his dog’s randy, huh? Might have to look into getting him gelded. Or at least caged. A nice ring round his base and a lockable steel contraption that ties his cock to his thigh, forcing him to stay soft; that ought to do it. His mind clicks through possibilities, each new image as visceral and vivid as if it were right in front of him. Stroking the knock-off leather of his satchel, inside which lurks his trusty camera, Peter lets his imagination run rampant.

There’s so many things he could do to Wade. But would Wade let him?

Forcing a sigh, he pauses on the threshold and turns to find Wade watching, even as he blows on his hands and feigns disinterest. His shivers have slowed, looking to be on the cusp of ceasing. As fun as it would be to test his dog’s limits, Peter doesn’t want to have to call an ambulance. He especially doesn’t want to fork out to cover Wade’s non-existent health insurance should the man become hypothermic. He boots the door a little further open, snow clinging to the treads of his shoes. “C’mon in then.”

Wade bounds upright. His enthusiasm is precious. His expression when Peter throws out a hand, grabbing him before he can lurch inside, is equally so, if for different reasons. He’s like a whipped cur: tenuous hope splintering into mistrust and scowls. Peter ignores the posturing. “You’re not wearing those inside,” he says, motioning to Wade’s… well, Wade’s everything. “I spent an hour mopping up after you last night. Strip ‘em.”

“But it’s cold…”

“Strip, and you can come inside where it’s warm.”

Wade nods at the empty street. Night has long-since fallen, and Peter’s prints are the only ones that defile the bed of crisp fresh snow. “Can’t say I pegged you for an exhibitionist.”

”There’s no one around to impress. Or horrify, as the case may be.”

Scarred fingers hover over the drawstrings of his hoodie. A part of Peter expects Wade to pull it tight and retreat to the corner of the doorstep. But Wade merely toys with the frayed dangling ends, peeping at Peter from under the low-pulled hood. “I can keep this though, right? It won’t do much in the way of preserving modesty, but it saves you having to cut eyeholes in a brown paper bag...”

Ideally, Peter would have him remove his pants, and his shoes, and his socks, and everything else that makes Wade conceive of himself as _human._ But he recognizes a compromise when he’s offered one. If Wade would prefer to keep his ruined mug in shadow, Peter will oblige him. He’ll invest in blindfolds and masks once his paycheck’s come through – preferably ones with bits, to stop Wade’s incessant chatter and prevent him biting his tongue off if he objects to Peter’s training methods.

“You can keep it,” he permits, standing in his path. Good dogs don’t enter before their masters. Of course, being built like an Olympic gymnast, Wade would have no trouble shoving him aside – which makes this power play all the more thrilling. Peter, bulked by his padded jacket, stands sentinel in the drafty hall and points imperiously at Wade’s boots. “But I’ll bet the soles of your feet are manky too. I’ll get in trouble with the landlady and the other residents if you trek… whatever you might have been stepping in all through the communal hall. So you can hold onto your hoodie. But only if you crawl.”

Wade fidgets a moment longer. He threads the drawstrings between his fingers, then hooks one into his mouth to chew. The repetitive grind of tooth over twine seems to soothe him. Peter doesn’t tell him to stop. There’ll be time for weaning Wade away from his comfort-habits in the weeks to come.

“You want to be warm, don’t you Wade,” he says softly. Breathing a steady plume of steam, he trails slim fingertips along Wade’s jawline. And what a jawline it is. If Peter weren’t wearing gloves, he’d check himself for slices.

Wade leans into the fleeting warmth, whining low in his throat. His skin is cold and damp, like dew on pewter, and he whimpers delightfully when Peter rescinds the touch.

It’s all too easy to forget that they’re on a doorstep in the middle of America’s most bustling city. But this part of Queens is cold and damp and inhospitable, and no one stays on the streets longer than they have to. Few folks would care about the homeless man on Peter’s doorstep, lured in by the honey-glazed interior lights like a fly to a zapper. Fewer still would _do_ anything about it.

Peter rubs his thumb over Wade’s lips, where the scar tissue runs thinnest and capillaries swell sluggishly to the surface when he digs in the nail. If things go wrong, it’d be so very easy to spin this the other way. He could paint Wade as the aggressor. A nameless crazy who’d forced his way in; perhaps tried to force himself on Peter too. Wade could protest all he wanted. Peter knows which of them the cops would believe.

It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to envision Wade Wilson as a monster. Or, Peter discovers as Wade unhooks his rusted fly button with trembling fingers, as a well-trained pet. Either way, it will only take a little push.

***

It takes Wade too long to discard his tattered pants, as if the denim has meshed into his skin. His boots are tucked at the corner of the step. He hesitates before dropping to his knees, seemingly shameless about the flaccid cock that’s shrivelling up his thighs away from the cold. His eyes keep trailing back to his clothes. Eventually, after watching Wade gnaw his lip bloody – the scab puckers and fades before Peter’s eyes; _interesting_ \- Peter loses patience.

“You really think someone’s going to steal them?”

“They got the smell of streetwalker on ‘em,” Wade mumbles. “Means they’re free game. I can’t go to the cops and bitch, can I?” He’s got a point. He also won’t be needing clothes – but Peter decides that they might have sentimental value, if they’re all Wade has to call his own. And all dogs need toys, right?

“Grab them and dump them by the umbrella stand then,” he says, pointing at a contraption that has leaned on the doorway since before Peter's aunt and uncle scrounged together advance-rent for a room. It’s been there so long that Peter is unsure if the doorframe is holding it up or vice versa. Wade eyes it skittishly.

“But you said you wanted me to crawl… Gonna have to be more specific, Babyboy. Isn’t hard to confuse me, nowadays. I don’t want you forfeiting just because I’m about as good at following orders as the Huntsman in _Snow White._ ”

 _Babyboy._ Peter’s teeth grit, throwing back the embers of the dying streetlamp. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sure, honeybunch.” His grimace deepens, grooves furrowing Peter’s cheeks. Wade relents. He holds his hands in the air, and squats so his quivering calves rest on the step, bare feet digging into gritty off-white snow: the perfect picture of coerced submission. “Okay, okay. No more _babyboy._ What should I call you though? You never told me your name…”

Breeze lifts a flurry and carries it dancing through the hall. Swirling like an eddying river, frost chippings scatter themselves over the landlady’s welcome mat. Car headlights from the street gloss Wade’s back, silhouetting him for the briefest of moments – firm shoulders, bowed head, thickly muscled thighs and cold shrunken cock – before glancing away, leaving them in darkness.

“Come inside,” Peter growls, tapping off his boots on the wall an inch from Wilson’s head. He swings to one side, presenting him with room to scramble past – on all fours, as promised, clothes clutched one-handed to his chest. He looks delectable, in a gruesome sort of way. Peter’s glad his housemates are more unsociable than he is. He doesn’t like to share his things. “And Wade? You can call me ‘master’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Really kinky stuff starts next chapter. Might run over the 5 I've assigned this fic; we'll see.**
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> **As ever, comments = motivation. ;)**
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> ****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: kinky dub!con dogplay within.**

Peter makes Wade crawl ahead of him up the stairs - mostly so he can watch that muscular ass squeeze and clench. But he snags the back of his hoodie before he can enter the apartment. Wade lurches to a halt, more abrupt than if Peter had yanked on a choke collar – not that he’s wearing one yet; but oh, that’ll change. He’s not fast enough to prevent his hood slipping back. His wince could be from the sudden assail of the bright bare bulbs in the hallway, but Peter suspects it has more to do with the tortured skin that’s now on display.

He rights the hood, stroking Wade soothingly over it. A panoply of gnarly scars bunch to the press of his fingers.

“There, there. It’s okay. I told you, you can keep it on for now. You just have to let me go in first.”

“Well duh,” says Wade, crouching so the shadow from the hood spills into his eyesockets. “You have the key.”

Peter takes it out to prove it. And then, after a brief scout of the hallway – the surrounding apartments are lifeless, their occupants either working night-shifts or holed up smoking pot and unlikely to emerge except in cases of fire, gunshots, or screaming so loud it drowns out the blare of their televisions – he ducks to trail the chilled metal along Wade’s bare thigh. Wade’s leg jitters. He pushes his forehead against the doorframe and rocks it there, panting as Peter skirts the messiest open sores and paints a frigid trail to Wade’s hip bones.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he breathes.

Wade’s eyes shoot open. _A-ha,_ he must be thinking. _So that’s what you’ve got planned for me._ But he doesn’t say it. His jaw tics with the strain of clamping down on the words, but when he unclenches it, what emerges is not one of his usual half-sensical spiels but a low “woof”.

It reverberates in his chest. As does Peter’s groan. He rams the key into the lock on his third try, scrabbling over the tumblers with a drunkard’s finesse. Then with a brutal wrench, the door is open. Peter strides through, unwinding his scarf and tossing it over the sofa arm. “Here boy,” he calls, pointing at the spot by his feet.

Wade crawls as commanded. Light dribbles sinuously over his bare backside, glossing the scars that adorn his thighs and upturned foot soles. He’s still eyeing Peter warily, as if he expects this pleasant demeanor to splinter and be replaced with harsh words and kicks.

“So what, I act your dog and you feed me?” he asks. Human words again. How many times will he break Rule One before he realizes? Peter doesn’t deign reply. He lets his eyes go cold though – and watches Wade fight the urge to cringe.

“Stay,” is all he says. And then he marches into the kitchen to collect the items he’s been scrounging in the hours between work and sleep.

An old second-hand sofa cushion, already speckled with dog-hair. A foot long rawhide bone, gravy-brown and tough enough to gnaw. A tin bowl, filled halfway with water, and another besides – empty for now. And a collar.

Peter doesn’t have much money, but what little he has, he spends wisely. The collar is an excellent investment. He’s almost as proud of it as he is his house. It’s leather – fake, most likely, but the most realistic replica he can afford – with chain holding it together at the back. There’s a loop at the front, and a corresponding tag in Peter’s pocket.

(He got it etched on his lunch hour. “Funny name for a dog, ‘Wade’,” the man had said. Peter had shrugged and smiled.)

Now he clips it into place, feeling the weight of Wade’s gaze on him. He clears his throat. “Present yourself,” he says.

Wade blinks. “Dunno what that means.”

“Present.”

“I said, I don’t know…”

Peter walks towards him, collar aloft. “Present.”

Wade’s shoulders lose their aggressive square; he shrinks into himself, trying to stare defiantly at Peter while keeping watch on the approaching circlet of leather and metal, as if he expects it to be introduced to his face at high velocity. “How many times? I don’t know _how._ ”

Peter grabs his chin. He forces his head back, bearing the long, masculine column of his throat – and ignoring Wade’s whimper as his hood falls off, exposing his face for the second time in as many minutes. Peter studies it, in all its imperfection. He keeps emotion from his features, treating Wade to a clinical appraisal – no need to shake his dog’s already delicate ego, even if he’s misbehaved. But Wade still whines. The sound lances straight to Peter’s groin. Wade presses his knees tight together, fingers curling into claws against the threadbare carpet as he resists the urge to punch Peter and make his escape.

His chin trembles in Peter’s grip. Spit pools in the corners of his mouth, making his scarred underlip shimmer. He keeps his eyes shut when Peter releases him, although Peter sees the irises scooting about behind the thin lids, and raises his hands palm-out in futile defense.

When no blow comes – only Peter tapping him on the nose and mildly reissuing his order: “Present.” – Wade dares to crack his eyes open. Peter waits until his breathing’s returned to regular levels before snapping the collar closed around his throat. “That’s it. Good boy.”

Sure, Wade hadn’t obeyed of his own volition. But positive reinforcement is vital – Peter learnt that from the dog-training courses he’s been watching online.

The nametag rests in the hollow of Wade’s collarbones. It’s a tight fit – not so much that it restricts Wade’s breathing, but snug enough to be unforgettable. On the reverse of the tag is Peter’s name, number and address. Wade feels them out, rubbing exploratory fingertips across the neat stencilled lettering. His big shoulders are still tense, but he no longer looks ready to bolt. Instead, his expression is almost wondering.

“You… you wanna keep me?”

Peter can’t help but smile. “Does my good boy like his gift?” he asks.

“Woof,” is Wade’s only response. He looks at Peter so adoringly, earlier challenge lost in wonder at the thought that anyone could _want_ something so undesirable. A thin string of saliva threads his lips together as he shapes them around that word, again and again: “Woof, woof, woof.” It still sounds far too human to Peter’s ears – a spoken ‘woof’ rather than a bark. But there’s no mistaking the grumble of a hungry stomach. That, all animals share. Wade makes his eyes as big as they’ll get in the scar-strewn topography of his cheeks, and lets his tummy do the talking.

Peter crooks one corner of his mouth higher than the other. “Let’s get you some food,” he says, turning back to the kitchen. “My poor mutt must be _starving._ ”

***

He put the readymeal out to defrost that morning. Without having had the heating on all day - wasting gas is uneconomical, and for Peter thriftiness means the difference between making rent and having to move back in with his aunt and uncle - the apartment’s barely above freezing. The lasagna's creamy innards are still tough when Peter pokes them with a fork. He sets the microwave to blast it on high for a minute longer than usual, and heads back into the poky living room – where he catches Wade lifting his water bowl so he can slurp from the curved metal rim.

It takes one glare for Wade to freeze. Sheepishly, he lowers the dish. It clinks off the bare boards – Peter can’t afford carpeting, only rugs and throws to hide the worst of the damp and the woodworm. The rim is so wide that what Wade spills down his front equates what he manages to catch in his mouth. His ragged sweater is practically squelching.

“Uh, sorry?” Wade ventures. He lifts a damp cuff and sucks the moisture free. He looks so pretty like that, in a grotesque sort of way – knelt and hunched, red threads clinging to moist lips – that Peter doesn’t snap at him for talking. He does, however, only scrape half of the lasagna into Wade’s bowl once the timer bings.

Cheese clings to the cold spoon like Chinese noodles, thin strands turning brittle as they dry. The scent floods Peter’s nose as saliva floods Wade’s mouth; Wade makes doleful eyes at him, jaw dangling loose so it drips down his chin. He’s certainly as shameless as a dog, Peter muses as he sets the steaming bowl down on the floor. He snaps his fingers, a percussive click, and points.

“It’s all you get until you learn to behave.”

Wade crawls over. His bare toes curl for purchase on the hard boards, and he keeps his head low, dangling between his shoulders, knowing that he’s done wrong. He lowers his face towards the sloppy pile of pasta, veg, and congealing cheese, and inhales like a steam train preparing to whistle. His honey-brown eyes latch onto Peter’s. “I’mma need a napkin after this.”

“I’ll clean you up, don’t worry.” Peter slipped his shoes off when he entered, in homage to the dream of a clean home. Now he sets one holey sock, sweat-stained from a day spent scampering up and down the _Daily Bugle_ tower and catering to Jones’ every whim, directly on Wade’s crown. He applies pressure, ignoring the way Wade’s neck muscles tighten in resistance, until the man’s nose crests the steaming sauce. “You look like you could do with a bath.”

***

Wade accustoms himself to handless eating in roughly the amount of time it takes him to inhale his lasagna – so two minutes. He sits on his heels when he’s done, licking futilely round his lips and pawing tomato-stained cheeks with sticky hands. Peter, lounging over the couch, grumbles he dislodges his feet, which have been propped and crossed over Wade’s back. But he doesn’t scold Wade. Just continues to eat his own lasagna (a full meal, Wade’s other half having been put aside for later) and snaps his fingers for Wade to come crouch at the edge of the sofa so Peter can caress that deformed bald scalp.

Wade rests his chin on Peter’s thigh, gazing soulfully up at him. It’s half-cheeky, half-adorable: cheeky because Wade is still liberally smeared in sauce, and is coating Peter’s clean pants in much the same; adorable because eyes that clear and bright have no place in a face so ruined. The collar doesn’t bother him. He occasionally rolls his head around on his neck like a flail on a mace, still getting used to the sensation, but he never makes to remove it.

The brush of Peter’s fingers over his twisted, malaised temples though? That almost sends him into paroxysms.

“Can I put my hood up again? Please? Master? C’mon, you might have a thing for petplay, but unless you’re into shar-peis, my whole Quasimodo vibe has gotta be a turn-off. And uh, that's 'shar pei' the dog, not 'Sharpey' the blonde chick from High School Musical.”

In actual fact, Peter has begun to enjoy the texture of those shifting, flowing scars. But there’s still Wade’s self-disdain to contend with. He shakes his head. “What’s the point? You’ll only take it off when we get in the bath.”

“’We’?” Wade nuzzles his leg, breath breaking over Peter’s kneecap. He can feel it through his cheap suit pants: moist, humid, warmed by the hot food in Wade’s belly. “You bathe with your dogs, huh? Very Renley of you… Or perhaps ‘Reek’?” He nods to Peter’s fly. “All I'm asking is, if I go a-hunting, will I find sausage or mash?”

Peter gives him a warning look, fork scraping pewter. The last lukewarm mouthful of lasagna sticks on the way down. “Keep to ‘woof’, Wade. It’s safer for you.”

Wade seems chastened, in a petulant sort of way. “Woof,” he mutters. The bulge at Peter’s crotch answers his question though. Especially when it bobs at the sound of his bark.

***

After Peter’s dumped their plate and bowl in the sink, joining the weekly load of grubby crockery, he hooks two fingers through the leash-loop on the back of Wade’s collar and has him crawl besides him to the bathroom. He takes the bone too. You never know when you might need motivation.

“Heel,” he says when Wade hangs back, shying from cold sterile tile.

Wade’s grin is decidedly nervous now. He edges closer to Peter’s legs and the threat of the open bathroom door, but only by an inch. “Easiest place to clean after you’ve killed someone, the bathroom. Uh. Woof.”

Peter rolls his eyes, tapping the bone against his thigh. “Would you know much about body disposal, Wade?”

“No!” says Wade, far too quickly.

“Right. Well, neither would I. Now, _heel._ ” And he yanks on the collar until the choke chain slips a whole link tighter, and Wade’s breath stutters in his throat.

“F-fuck –“

“That didn’t sound like a bark.”

“Woof! Woof, dammit, fucking woof… You little sadist…” His voice breaks into harsh gags, face reddening under the scars. Peter pulls until Wade’s hands instinctively come up, scrabbling, anything to lessen the strain on his windpipe. And then releases, letting him slump face-down in a quivering ball. “F-fu-fuck. Woof. Woof.”

“That’s right.” Peter hums happily, stepping over Wade’s trembling form and cranking the ancient taps to full blast.

***

It turns out that he chose the wrong species when he assigned Wade his new life – the man’s far more mangy tomcat than street-mutt. He eyes the water: crystalline, sparkling, steam peeling from its surface in grey-white wafts; only a little milky from the limescale. And he hugs his bare knees tighter, curled in the furthest corner of the bathroom while Peter sits on the closed toilet lid, bone resting across his lap like a police truncheon, and mulls this latest conundrum.

“Get in the bath, Wade,” he tries. Wade twitches and clutches his scar-knobbled patellae. Releasing them will leave him vulnerable to being uncurled, underbelly exposed to whatever pain Peter might want to inflict, like a woodlouse pried from its protective ball.

“Can’t deal with hot water,” he mumbles. He’s buried his face in his folded forearms, in lieu of the hood. Peter hasn’t explicitly forbidden him from putting up again, but it’s a well-known fact that dogs don’t have opposable thumbs, and Wade’s too wise to risk it. “Hurts.”

Peter’s losing patience. “Well, of course it’ll hurt. You’re most likely freezing. Going from one temperature extreme to another, capillaries widening… It’ll sting, alright.”

“No.” Wade’s dirty nails dig into his forearms. Corresponding flakes of dry dead skin peel onto the bathmat, like rind from a zested orange. He works his chin around, drooping head making the collar bite into his underjaw. “Hurts my… My scars. Too… sensitive.”

So Wade still has feeling in them? Peter yearns to touch, to discover if he can make his dog whimper with fingertips alone… And, reminding himself that he no longer has to hold back – that Wade is collared and, for all intents and purposes, _his_ – he does so.

He stands. Crosses the distance between him and Wade in a single stride. His bathroom is claustrophobic; the billowing vapors mist every mirror and swamp the atmosphere in steam, as if the air itself is overladen. It’s like being inside a cloud – or a very cheap, silverfish-infested sauna. Either way, cleansing for the lungs. Wade’s breath is already a little fast. It quickens into hyperventilation as Peter nears. “No, no, I don’t wanna…”

Peter hushes him. Dips a flannel into the bath, letting the water saturate it from the bottom up. He wipes the itchy remains of the lasagne from Wade’s face in smooth, gentle circles. Wade shudders the entire time, never pulling away but never leaning into the touch either. Peter unwinds his arms from around his knees, pulling a face as he touches Wade’s grotty sweater. Then pushes his knees apart too and insinuates himself between, dragging the coarse flannel along the scars that ridge Wade’s jawline.

This close, he can smell him. It’s the aroma of the street: a tart bouquet of exhaust fumes, nicotine smoke, and the rotting innards of binbags; but joined by personal Wade-stenches: putrefaction, old taco, sweat, unwashed body. Peter wonders what’ll happen once he’s rinsed Wade down. He’s going to wash him thoroughly; scrub him inside and out; eradicate the grime that’s defined Wade for as long as he’s been homeless. What scents will cling to him them?

Wet-dog is too much to hope for. There’s not a shred of hair on Wade’s body – even his underarms are bare, silkiness marred only by scar tissue. And, Peter sees as he forces Wade’s trembling thighs as wide as he expects them to go – then wider still, because _damn_ , his dog is flexible – his groin is equally hairless. A little dirty, a little smelly – with that particular pubic musk that only clings to those areas of the body. But velvety and soft as a sphinx cat.

Such smoothness looks odd on a full-grown man. But then again, all of Wade _looks odd._ Peter discovers that he likes it.

Wade, now crushed to the wall with knees by his ears, flexes his calves in Peter’s grip and tugs his hoodie so that it covers as much as possible. Given his sheer size, that isn't very much at all. “Uh yeah, he’s looking at us like he wants to eat us again…”

Peter doesn’t have the patience to indulge Wade’s madness. He stands, taking the washcloth with him.

Wade’s legs press together uncertainly. He’s shy as he’d been shameless when Peter first stripped him on his step, bare to the ice and wind of a New York winter. Maybe it’s the proximity of the bath. Maybe it’s the better lighting, which illuminates each scar in almost-brutal detail. Maybe it’s the blood pooling in Wade’s cock, unhidden by the tatty edge of his sweater. Either way, Peter’s had enough. Wade’s getting in that bath, and he’s going to submit to Peter’s cleaning, and he’s going to bark like a good little dog until he’s full of Peter’s cum.

Peter grabs the collar. Hoists, until Wade has to kneel or choke. Then he drags him to the edge of the chipped porcelain tub. But not even the threat of asphyxiation can get Wade into it. Peter clucks his tongue off his teeth. “Take off your hoodie.”

Wade shakes his head. He stares at the water like he’s afraid it’s acidic, like it’ll eat away at him until there’s nothing left but pitted, pockmarked bone.

Peter sighs. “Get in the bath with it on then. But I won’t have you in wet clothes – you’ll be naked afterwards.”

Wade shakes his head again. Mist condenses on his cheeks, sweat slithering between his scars. Crocodile tears. Peter nods, like he understands. Retreats from Wade’s vision, making sure Wade hears his footsteps pad to the toilet – where the bone sits, stretching from one side of the cistern to the other. “Have you heard of ‘carrot’ and ‘stick’, Wade?”

“If dogs can’t talk, can they answer questions?” Voice high-pitched. Bordering on squeaky. Excellent; Wade’s already afraid.

“That was rhetorical.” Peter tests the bone’s firmness. The folded rawhide ends are wonderfully rough; Peter’s fingertips sting just from running them over it. “Well, never mind. You’re not getting a carrot or a stick. You’re getting a bone.” He returns to Wade, trailing that same coarse end along his spine, dragging the rim of his jumper away from his tailbone. “The only thing is, I’ve got to decide which end I put it in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There will be porn aplenty in the next chapter. And object insertion, of course.**
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> **(I blame everything on blue_jack.)**
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> **Please comment! It's the best motivation. Also, go to the first chappie and check out my art! :D**
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> ****


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Enjoy, ya filthy animals.**

The water runs brown within seconds. Peter considers emptying it and starting over – but then decides he might as well scrape the worst of the crud off his pet now rather than sullying the next tubful. In fact, if Wade keeps sitting like that; morose and sodden and not looking like he plans to lift a finger to clean himself any time in the next century; Peter might as well grit his teeth and scrub him himself.

He snaps on a pair of pink marigold washing up gloves. “Nothing personal,” he tells Wade. Wade shrugs.

“Don’t blame you for not wanting to touch me. Master. Woof. Kinda amazed you’ve made it this far without needing to puke. Uh. Woof.” He’s not a fast learner. But he at least has the sense to correct himself. Rather than reaching for the bone – which rests against the bathtub in easy grabbing distance, and which Wade is eyeing with what is either poorly disguised excitement or well-disguised trepidation – Peter selects a loofah and sets to scrubbing the grunge and the grease from his dog’s flesh.

The scars are… Fascinating. As nuanced and mutable as the dapple of light through a forest canopy. They swirl across Wade’s skin like scuddy water from a sewage pipe, which infects the clean river it’s pumped into. Like that river, there’s a fragile natural beauty to Wade’s face. Knifeblade cheekbones. A strong yet not obtrusive chin. An upturned nose, sensual lips better suited to a Bernini statue, and those wonderful rum-rich eyes, which glance away from Peter’s as if they’re afraid to acknowledge the lust they see there. Why, were it not for his skin affliction, Wade could have been a model.

Peter can’t wait to see what that face looks like when it’s contorting through an orgasm. And then afterwards: once he’s fucked his dog bitch-style and plugged him full of his cum, when he drags Wade’s flaccid and sensitive cock to the back of his throat and suckles until he’s milked the last drops free, and Wade’s clutching his head and only just remembering to intersperse his sobs with barks…

But first, he’s gotta clean him. Peter might be poor, but he’s got his pride. His dog is going to be pristine by the end of this bath, or Peter’s gonna catch an infectious disease from the filthy film that clings to his skin and die trying. Peter’s loath to let whatever bacteria have made their home on (or in) Wilson come into contact with him – but he’s also determined to do a thorough job.

Planting one hand on the back of Wade’s head, he dunks him. There’s little warning and no reprieve. Wade could fight back, Peter’s convinced of it – his nose twitched and his eyes snapped wide one second before Peter pushed him down. If Wade truly wanted, he could pummel Peter like a boxer’s training sack, beat him until he’s uglier even than his houseguest.

But for whatever reason, Wade’s making an effort to hide that violent streak. He allows himself to be pushed under, snorting bubbles and a pathetic gargly ‘woof’. The tub’s slippery. His fingers catch and skid on the porcelain with a noisy wet squeak.

Peter lets him up for air. Listens to Wade pant, takes in his blown-wide pupils and complete lack of resistance. And pushes him under again.

Ripples spread from the point of entry, petals on a liquid flower. Peter’s wrist, the centrepiece, submerges further, and he realizes two things in short order: the first that he’s bent Wade forwards, head between his knees like he’s genuflecting; the second that Wade’s flexibility leaves very, very little to be desired, and that he should be able to slot his own cockhead between his lips with minimal hardship.

It’s a rough baptism but a gentle drowning. Peter’s washing-up gloves catch on the ridged scars that circle Wade’s crown in a rust-coloured coronet. Mud and dead skin and grot swirls around his wrist, buoyed away by the water. Each time Wade’s face emerges it’s cleaner. Still disfigured. Still breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly repulsive. But when Peter runs the cold damp flannel over the bridge of his nose, mopping around his crusty, half-squinted eyes, the gaze glinting back at him is pure fire.

Not wildfire. It’s not nearly so dangerous and chaotic and untameable (although Peter bets Wade has his moments). More like… hearthfire. Warming. And, more importantly, docile.

Peter cups Wade’s cheek. The wet rubber make Wade squirm, but when Peter angles him in to kiss, he’s perfect and pliant and eager-to-please. Everything Peter wants. It lasts a beat too long: tongues gliding together, hot and slick; Peter exploring the scarred insides of a cheek. Then he pulls back.

“Clean inside yourself,” he says, scrubbing light circles across Wade’s jaw with the gloves’ textured thumbpads. “I think it’s time you and me went to bed.”

***

Wade hasn’t been towelled off properly – Peter’s far too impatient for that. He leaves wet imprints as he crawls over the sheet, rubbing his nose on Peter’s pillow, sniffing for where his smell is strongest.

Peter had watched him stroke open his pucker and rootle around until his watertight hole softened, accepting the two fingers offered to it. The bathwater had been veering to tepid. Wade hadn’t complained; meant his scars weren’t screeching inside as well as out. Were it not for the voices in his head, whispering nonsense that Wade doesn’t allow himself to believe ( _He’s treating us well. Does he like us? Maybe he wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to keep us after all…_ ) Wade would’ve been almost comfortable.

Now there’s only the voices to contend with. Peter remains in the bathroom, brushing his teeth or whatever else it is hoity-toity homeowners do before they fuck the men they drag in off the streets. Most of the homeless guys Wade hangs with don’t have any teeth left to brush. Whether this is because they haven’t had access to basic facilities since the time Georgey W. tossed tea in the harbor, or because they’re all pushing seventy, he doesn’t know. Wade’s lucky in that regard. What had been done to him at the testing facility might not have made him into the buxom blonde of his dreams, but at least he doesn’t tempt aneurysms fretting over dental.

Sighing, he flops onto his back, relishing the dip of a real, spring-laden mattress beneath him.  He can even feel a couple digging through, in exquisite detail – call him _Princess_ and the spring _Pea,_ and you’ve gotta Disney movie in the making. He rests like that for a long minute, just taking it in. Absorbing the luxury, as meager and relative as that luxury is. Then, squinting into the bald white glow of a halogen bulb – how old _is_ this place? – rolls so his ass is the first thing Peter will see.

That’s the prettier half. Wade’s well aware of it. He’s also aware that Peter has _intentions_ with that half _,_ and that the bone – leaning against the doorframe now – is the tip of the iceberg. An iceberg constructed from kinky sextoys and rejected lines from _50 Shades._

Well, two can play at that game. Wade’s already tingling _down there_ – whether from the humiliation or the anticipation or just his eagerness to fall asleep somewhere warmer than a doorstep (should Peter extend the courtesy of his floor after he’s fucked his fill). Squirming a hand underneath, he lifts his hips just enough to toy with his soft scarred cockhead. When the tingles intensify he chases them down and around, over hairless balls and perineum, back to where he feels the most.

He’s dry. Not completely, thanks to his earlier dunking, but while water-based lubes might have revolutionized the sex industry, water itself doesn’t quite cut it. When the jackasses at the facility pumped him full of Magical Mystery Gunk and made him into the markedly less-cute energizer bunny, they forgot to add ‘self-lubricating asshole’ to their list of superpowers.

Of course, _they_ hadn’t cared much about that. Plenty of slick substances in a top-secret illegal pharmaceuticals testing lab, or whatever evil corporation it was that Wade sold his soul to, back in the day. Sometimes, Wade hadn’t bothered to mention that what they’d grabbed was toxic. He could take it. Their cocks couldn’t. And revenge tasted best bittersweet – or, as in those cases, served with a glazed side-garnish of _owfuck my ass._

But Wade healed. He healed from the punishments, he healed from the abuse and daily torture, he healed from being cast-out into the pool of the dead. He survived his first year on the streets – because where else was a crazy ex-soldier supposed to go, in a modern-day world where superheroes were relegated to the comicbooks? Even if his mind lagged behind, his body was always ready for its next beating. Whatever Peter has in store, it can’t trump what Wade’s suffered already; he’ll bear this like he’s borne everything else the universe has spat at him.

And who knows, he thinks as he sucks contemplatively on a finger, rubbing spit over his asshole until the newly-tightened entrance softens. Maybe he’s sick enough to enjoy it.

***

Peter has known Wade Wilson for under a week. Yet he’s already amassed an impressive list of things he wants to do to him: a notepad jotter filled with scrawled obscenities and ideas that keep Peter’s brain ticking past midnight. Now, after swilling his mouthwash, gargling and spitting, the green splatter lurid and alien in his chipped white basin, he runs a mental audit and selects his favourites.

Peter is going to fuck Wade like the dog he is. He’s gonna make him bark, beg, scream. Then he’s gonna slide his bone into him, torturous slow, and leave him plugged up for round two.

It’s all planned out. Nothing can go wrong – Peter won’t allow it. Taking a lung-scouringly deep breath, he pushes air still humid from the shower out of his nostrils, taps his toothbrush dry on the edge of the sink, and goes to tend to his pet.

Wade’s face down, ass up. He looks perfect: buttocks like globes, firm but moulding to the cup of Peter’s hands. Thick thighs tense at the creak as Peter levers himself on top of him. Peter says nothing – no reassurances, no criticisms. The only noise he makes is a quiet pleased grunt, when he peels apart Wade’s cheeks to find his hole already shiny, with the swollen flush that can only be caused by rigorous fingering.

“Like what I’ve done with the place?” Wade gasps, twisting one shoulder off the mattress to crane backwards and check Peter’s reaction. “Spit only, m’fraid. Best I could do. My Boy Scout training kicked in, and I figured it’d be better to prepare in case you wanted to go in bareback – Oh! Oh, fuck. Well, good thing I did, or you’d be pretty fucking sore right now. How’s about a thank you, for all my efforts? I’m no demigod, but hey, _you’re welcome-!_ ”

“Do,” asks Peter through gritted teeth, holding his still-chubbing length to guide it inside so that he might spear Wade rather than crumpling his cock against tight pink muscle, “you plan on talking the whole time?”

“Was that an order for me to stop?”

“So long as you keep it to dog noises? You be as loud as you like, bitch.”

***

The word snaps from his tongue, plosive as a whip-crack. Wade positively _writhes._ He squirms around Master’s still-stiffening cock, each clench a ripple that glides along the shaft like he’s milking Master’s bloodflow. The intensity is breathtaking. Master might not be long, but he’s _thick,_ and he only gets thicker towards the root. His base pops into Wade like a tiny knot.

Which, thinking about it, is kinda hot. Maybe Wade can get behind this dog thing after all… Or he could stay in front of it. On his hands and knees. Cock gouging into him from behind.

Master groans low in his chest.

 _Move,_ Wade thinks, and he can’t tell if he says it out loud or whether what he hears is an amalgamation of all his little boxes, screaming in his head in synchrony. But whether or not the plea is audible, Master doesn’t prolong his torture. He draws out: a long, lavish drag that feels like it pulls half of Wade’s innards with it. He pauses there, cock on the breach, threatening to slip out entirely should Wade so much as twitch, shiver, _breathe…_

Wade’s muscles quiver with the effort of holding still. Master is cooler than him – most people are; Wade burns at a consistent 120 thanks to his unique cocktail of cancer and regeneration. The pads of his fingers are like pellets of ice left to melt on his skin; Wade feels each individual imprint. But more than that he feels hollow, empty and needy and like he’d very much appreciate having Master back inside him.

Before Wade can whimper, Master shunts forwards. His cock is a blazing chisel that splits Wade clean in two. And sure, that’s a metaphor, else there’d be blood and guts and crap and all _kinds_ of stuff that most normal guys don’t want on their dicks – but it’s already been established that Master is Not A Normal Guy. And while he knows he’d heal, Wade can’t swallow his certainty that he’s being halved, Master’s cock a saw that lays him steadily more and more open.

Once you move past the fear, that thought is oddly euphoric.

Master is rough, thrusting deep and fast. His balls slap Wade’s perineum. He may be a scrawny guy, but what he lacks in weight is more than made up for in vigour; Master uses him like a doll. It’s not _sex._ It’s something harsher than that, something brutal and more degrading. Fierce. Animalistic. Inescapable. As if he’s fucking out his frustrations with the world. And Wade, bouncing on the mattress in time to the dry slap of skin, can’t get enough of it.

***

Hot breath breaks on the back of Wade’s skull, and nails gouge striations along his hipbones. They heal as soon as they cut. Peter, having shut his eyes to concentrate on the exquisite squeeze, doesn’t notice. He does notice when Wade starts tossing his head. His dog whines long and low, but in a rising scale, the cadence timed to Peter’s snapping hips as if each vicious stab punches a new note out of him.

“G-god, master, _master…_ ”

It takes Peter a moment to remember that he’d never told Wade his name. This is no fevered mid-sex fantasy while he’s fucking men dragged in from his local gay bar. Wade genuinely has nothing else to call him _._ When Peter winds a finger under Wade’s collar in lieu of yanking on his non-existent hair and drags his head up, Wade chokes himself for a glorious five seconds before following.

“Master,” he whispers again. His lips are trembling, as if at the end of a prayer. Peter fills him, empties him, fills him again; watches the flex and squish of Wade’s hole as it distends along the length of his cock. He fucks him until Wade’s arms give out and deposit him face-down, tongue lolling, eyes glazed. For all his not-inconsiderable experience – amazing where a lithe body and a pretty face will get you, even if most of the assholes Peter lure into his bed start off under the ridiculous impression that they’re going to top – Peter’s never seen anyone get fucked silly so fast. How could Peter ever doubt that he needed this? Wade’s made to be taken, and Peter’s only too eager to take.

“Say woof,” he growls. He yanks the collar again, heaving Wade’s limp head skywards. It forces his long scarred spine to arch, and Peter pauses a moment because damn, that visual is almost as exquisite as the tight clamped heat around him. Of course Wade’s flexible, as well as gloriously muscular and willing to take whatever Peter gives. Of course he’s fucking perfect. And for a moment, as Wade’s pulse flutters under the black leather, beating on Peter’s fingertips like the heartbeat of a trapped hummingbird, Peter wants to winch the collar high, see how far he can force Wade to arch before he snaps.

Then Wade whispers “Woof.”

Peter’s abdomen nudges the crest of Wade’s ass, pelvic bones clonking. He rests there while he catches his breath. “My bad dog needs his discipline, doesn’t he?”

“Woof.”

“You deserve everything I do to you.”

“Woof.”

“This is a lesson. A lesson to keep you loyal, like any mutt should be. I’m doing this for your own good, bitch.”

Wade’s shivers are weaker, more subdued. As if Peter’s fucking Wade into submission, and Wade’s relishing every moment. “Woof.”

Peter’s satisfied. He withdraws to the limit, cockhead holding Wade open. Oddly, the plush pink flesh seems disinclined to gape. Wade’s channel pinches closed after him, tight as a clam – but when Peter thrusts he parts those walls of muscle with brute force, friction gripping him like a squeezing fist. It must hurt. It must hurt so, so much. A pain like none imaginable, as Peter pierces that virgin-like pucker again and again and again. Yet Wade never fights back. He never screams, he never cries. There’s not even tears staining the sheets – only their sweat, and the fat beads of precum that leak from Wade’s untouched prick.

“Good boy,” Peter croons. He drags Wade’s ass back to meet him, swinging trim hips around the pivot of Wade’s knees. “Who’s a good boy?” The definition on Wade’s muscular back becomes markedly more pronounced the further Peter’s cock progresses inside him.

“Me,” he wheezes. His attempts to buck rearward result only in frustrated whines. Peter shuffles back to compensate, never letting Wade have enough leverage to ram himself full. He continues to feed his cock into that wide-stretched rim at his own pace, thumbs massaging the taut and trembling skin around it. Wad continues to babble, enacting the basic principle of mass conservation: the deeper Peter presses, the more words are forced out at his opposite end. “I’ve been a good boy. Such a good boy. Please Master. Lemme have your cock.”

And well… When he asks so prettily…

“Good dog,” says Peter, injecting his voice with all the baby-talking joviality with which people usually address their pets. He doesn’t give Wade time to preen. Just slams forwards and down, hard as he can, knocking Wade’s thighs from under him.

Wade bellyflops onto the mattress. For the first time since Peter began this game, his expression registers genuine shock. That shock devolves into half-lidded, drool-smeared bliss as Peter squats over him, feeding his dick into his ass vertically.

“Now,” pants Peter. He tastes sweat on his lips. When he flicks his fringe out of his eyes it’s heavy and damp, and his thin chest and abdomen shimmers with exertion when he looks down to where their bodies join. “I want you to cum when I tell you. Say ‘yes, master’.”

“Yes, master! Ugh- ah!” Seems like he found what he’s been looking for. Peter’s grin is half-grimace. After the experience of collaring Wade, feeding him and bathing him, Peter is pretty damn pent up himself. But he adjusts his angle, nailing Wade on the prostate until the man loses control of his mouth entirely, nonsense-sounds spilling into barks and yelps and fervent, husky moans.

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs again, because he loves the way the praise makes Wade squirm. “My good, good boy. Such a good boy –“ It’s all repetitive sweet-talk, the sort of stuff that would make Peter cringe if it played over the soundtrack of his favourite pornos. But Peter’s so entrenched in the moment – in Wade’s reactions, Wade’s noises, the arrhythmic and unpredictable contractions of Wade’s ass – that he doesn’t care. Wade is a spasming seismic force, an earthquake in human form. He absorbs Peter’s punishment and pushes back for more. But those pushes become less and less regular, sloppy and lewd, as if Wade doesn’t just want Peter’s cock inside him, he _needs_ it like he needs oxygen, and right now he’s drowning.

Peter can’t let that happen. After all, a dog is for life, not just for one fuck.

He plows him into the bed. The springs squeal and the headboard smacks the wall – Peter’s neighbour smacks the other side of it, but Peter and Wade are too far-gone to care.

When Peter gives the order – “Cum, bitch!” – he feels Wade start to seize almost before it’s left his mouth. The writhe of that chiselled body around him is like a scene pulled straight from a fantasy, and Peter overflows not to the thought of what his dog will look like dripping with his seed, but of what he looks like _now,_ in this snatch of stolen time between two men who under different circumstances might never have met.

They stink of sex. Sweat and seed and other secretions, and dammit but Peter only just washed his dog. He doubts he’ll be wrangling Wade into another bath any time soon. But that’s okay, because Peter has plans for him – and none of them involve Wade being clean and comfortable.

Once his heart no longer feels liable to explode through his sternum, Peter starts to withdraw. Wade winces with every tug, Peter slipping from that impossibly tight ass inch by inch. His head catches behind Wade’s rim, stretching the flesh a moment before popping wetly free, and Wade’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, fingers scrabbling at the cushion casing as if that’ll provide an anchor. Peter would laugh. But he’s too busy wilfully redirecting bloodflow from his too-sensitive cock, as a thick bead of semen trickles from Wade’s core, gathering at his entrance before spilling over in a seeping creamy string. Fuck. He could so go for a round two, right here and now…

But that’s not the plan.

Peter slows his breathing, meditation-style. He thinks of non-sexy things – of Uncle Ben and Aunt May, and his boss, and the dull tedium of the junior photographer’s deskjob that awaits him come morning. None quite eclipse the picture of Wade collapsed on the bed, scrunching his nose as his hole squelches round its load. But they’re enough to quell the burgeoning erection. When Peter levers himself away, thighs tacked to the back of Wade’s by their mingling, cooling sweat, he staggers to the bone in a line that is very almost straight.

He expects Wade to be basking in the afterglow, eyes shut and lips peeled back from his teeth. But when he turns, there’s a sleepy pair gaze trained on him. When Peter snaps off his light, plunging them into a darkness broken only by the amber fuzz of a streetlight visible through his thin blinds, those eyes’ gold coloration is accentuated more than ever. There’s no cringing, no shaking as Peter lifts the bone, weighing it between his hands. Only acceptance. And maybe – although it could just be Peter flattering himself – a little anticipation.

“Thought that was a stick, not a carrot,” Wade rasps. Smirking, Peter stalks back to the bed. He pries Wade’s cheeks apart, revealing the soft slick gape – which is already improbably tightening, shrinking before Peter’s very eyes. Weird. But Peter’ll consider the ramifications later. For now, all it means is that he has to hurry.

Wade’s scars curl from the pressure of his thumb, like blots on the mask of Peter’s favorite comic character. Perhaps there’s a hidden meaning in them, or perhaps the shapes Peter sees – dog, collar, bone, a human face – reflect more on his own psyche. But there’s no time for further contemplation. Wade’s constricting fast. Peter yanks out his ill-fitting, rickety sock drawer and retrieves the lube he’d neglected the first time round. It’s good to know Wade can handle a little pain, but right now, after creaming Peter’s mattress, his dog’s hole is already gonna be sensitized, overtaxed nerves prickling and raw scars seeping. Despite his continued disobedience when it comes to Peter’s rules regarding _woof_ and _master_ , he has been very good.

Peter squirts a glistening blob, tilting the bone this way and that and smearing it until it’s shiny as an icicle. Then he places the tip, shaped into a broad, bulbous two-pronged shape like the ball at the end of a human femur, against Wade’s hole.

“Bear down,” he breathes. Uses his other hand to manipulate Wade’s rim, propping fingers on the rough-scarred insides of each asscheek and stretching wide. Eventually, after a lot of effort on his end and a lot of forced-calm breathing on Wade’s, he pops the first of the rounded lumps inside.

It’s cold, compared to his cock. Wade shudders. He’s sticky with cum, soapy strings coating his perineum. Peter just hopes there’s enough left inside him to make plugging him worthwhile. “You need to relax,” he says. Wade’s nasal grunt is incredulous: _You think I’m not trying?_

Looks like he requires assistance. Well, Peter’s only too happy to help.

He strokes the tight-stretched ring of skin that engulfs half the bonetip. Twizzles the bone itself, rawhide stirring Wade open, and when he perceives there’s a little more _give_ he adds a finger to the mix, plucking Wade’s ass wide. His knuckle’s crushed to the rawhide. It’s grainy and sharp, but Peter pushes forwards regardless, burying his digit in Wade’s sloppy velvet channel. It’s infinitely gratifying, feeling what a stain he’s left inside him. Peter’s cum, kept warm by Wade’s ridiculous bodyheat, feels almost scalding as Peter dabbles, working his finger around the knob until Wade can be encouraged to accept the other.

This is harder. Much harder. The bone is wider than Peter’s cock even at its thickest point – no mean feat – and Wade has to snort air through his nose, throat bobbing under the collar. Peter can hear spit bubbling in the back of his throat. “Puh-please…”

“Hush,” Peter croons. “You’re doing well.”

And he is. Wade arches into his ministrations, taut as recurve bow. His toes curl, digging into the soft scarred pad of his foot, then strain desperately apart as Peter manipulates the bone so its entire fat end is swallowed by that sticky, bunching red rosette.

“I… I… Fuck, master. If you shove that into me hard enough, it’ll come out the other side.”

Peter crawls forwards, forearms trembling a little as they take his weight. He’s exhausted. Wade must be too – especially with Peter holding the bone at an angle so it exerts continuous pressure on Wade’s internal walls, unforgettable and overpowering. He kneels perpendicular to his dog’s brawny body, stooping to kiss his cheek. The peck is butterfly-quick, Wade’s skin almost as damp as Peter’s lips. Watching his pupils expand to fill their golden irises is gratifying though, and Peter notes – not for the first time – how well Wade responds to intimate little gestures like these, as if he doesn’t know how to handle them through lack of practice, but treasures them all the same.

“Trust me, bitch,” he says. “Master’s got you.”

***

Aunt May comes around for tea first Tuesday of every month. It’s one of those little routines that give time meaning.

Here are some more:

Peter kicks off his bedsheets at six o’clock sharp. He reaches down to where he knows his dog will be sleeping, big body draping off the side of his cushion, to brush Wade’s deformed skull. After scritching behind his ears, maybe encouraging Wade onto the bed to treat his Master to a morning blowjob, Peter splashes a spruce of water on his face, icy from the cold pipes, and sets off on his run. He takes his dog, of course. Wade jogs after him, forever a pace behind even though he could easily outpace Peter with his long legs and seemingly indefatigable stamina. Then they return, piling into Peter’s tub together for a quick scrub before work.

Peter’s been promoted by now, as he knew he would be. It’s not nearly high enough up the rankings – he still feels undervalued, still storms home and fucks out his frustrations on his dog every other night. But it’s better. He can afford to feed himself properly, buying actual ingredients rather than readymeals. Turns out his dog isn’t a half-bad cook, on the rare occasion Peter permits him to walk about on two legs and use his hands. Before Peter knows it he’s become accustomed to the smell of frying vegetables when he gets home, or lamb chops, or fillets of plaice, or whatever else was going cheap at the store that day. The quality of the ingredients doesn’t matter. It’s what Wade _does_ to them: whisking and sautéing and flambéing his crazy little heart out.

And so when Aunt May comes around, wanting to meet this elusive dog Peter keeps rambling about in his telephone calls; the one that makes him sound like he’s smiling genuinely, not just because he knows that’s what she wants to hear; Peter insists that Wade cook.

Wade, lolling on his back with Peter’s cum splattered between his thighs, crooks an eyebrow. “Do I get to wear clothes, master? An apron, at least? Maybe one of those cute ‘kiss the cook’ ones. Although maybe not – unless predilections for ugly scarred radioactive sharpeis run in the family.”

Peter snorts. They’ve established that Wade will only bark during scenes. Once they’re over, he’s free to gabble as much as he likes, so long as he calls Peter ‘Master’. Peter would claim it’s because he couldn’t stop Wade from talking if he gagged him – but he suspects it’s also because he’s coming to appreciate that ridiculous voice: the lovechild of Demi Moore and a cement mixer. “You’ll be in clothes,” he says. “Like when we go out for walkies.”

If Wade had a tail, it’d be wagging at the mere mention of that word. He loves their little excursions, loves sniffing the air around the soup stand and flirting with the nuns and waving at all the street-people Peter pretends not to see. “You mean you’re not going to introduce me as your dog, Master?”

“No. You’ll be my boyfriend – just for the duration of this visit,” he adds quickly, in case Wade starts getting ideas. “It’s for Aunt May’s benefit. She wouldn’t understand our… This.” A hand flaps between them to elucidate. Peter’s not at his most eloquent, but Wade nods like he understands nevertheless.

“Cool. So do I get to call you ‘Peter’ when she’s around?”

Peter finds it difficult to compress his face into a scowl. But he manages, and relishes the eager tremble that wracks Wade’s body at the sight of it. The bone, well-washed from their last game, rests on the dresser. Peter reaches for it now, watching Wade’s hole twitch in anticipation. “Don’t push it, bitch,” he growls, and pounces on top of him. There’s only ten minutes left before he has to be behind his desk – but what the hell. Maybe he’ll pull a sickie. He does have to go out and buy an actual dog after all, just to stop Aunt May getting suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry this is so late... I lost all motivation and got engulfed in Ravager-stuff again. Many thanks to blue_jack, whose commenting kept me working on this fic whenever I had a spare hour!**
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> **If you've made it to the end, do leave a comment. It's only fair. x**
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> ****

**Author's Note:**

> **Apologies for the extreme shortness of this chapter! I barely have any time to write at the moment, and I'm juggling like, five major creative projects on top of this one, working full time, and house-sitting. So argh.**
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> **Any comments serve as wonderful motivation! x**
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> ****


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